


Reddish Ruse

by cousinrayray



Category: Dexter (TV), Dexter - Fandom
Genre: Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Harry adopts 'em both AU, I dunno it's a weird tone, Incest, Kinda Dark, M/M, Murder, Relationship-centric, Torture, eventual underage smut, humor?
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-22
Updated: 2019-03-11
Packaged: 2019-10-14 07:02:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,517
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17503871
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cousinrayray/pseuds/cousinrayray
Summary: In the wild pre- Rate My Professor days, Dexter and Brian perform their own version of quality control on Dexter's high school. It's a community service, really. No one else was going to take out the trash. And certainly no one else would have as much fun doing it as they would.Or- Harry took them both in, and now look what they've become. Teenage brothers extraordinaire-murderous by night, increasingly incestuous by day. With awkward!Dexter, now 10x more pinchable!





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hi there! This is my first foray into the fandom (where's the beef, guys?? they're such a beautiful pairing, I need MOAR fic). I hope this offering pleases. 
> 
> There will be sex and murder and incest and some rapey stuff in this fic, though neither main character will die.

A great big brother could be counted on to listen and help solve the problem. An exceptional brother would help take revenge. But only someone truly extraordinary, the sort of brother Dexter was convinced there was only one of in the entire world, could be counted on to listen to what Dexter’s twisted mind had conjured up, and help him achieve it. 

“Oh Dexter, what a _naughty_ boy,” his brother said with teasing relish, a wide grin splitting his face. Dexter gave him an uncertain smile back, only understanding some of the layers to the words, as was often the case, but trusting Brian to illuminate, as was always the case. 

And sure enough, his big brother’s hands came up to his shoulders and laced behind his neck as he pressed his forehead against Dexter’s. “I never thought _you'd_ be the one who wanted to play with his food. Guess my baby brother's finally growing into a man.” 

Humor colored his words a crass purple. Dexter’s head tried to jerk back as prickling heat rose to his face, because this _was_ different of him, after all, this was an unusual thing for Dexter to suggest. But Brian immediately shushed him soothingly, his hands holding him in place. “Aw, don't get your dander up, I'm just teasing. It's a wonderful idea, Dexter,” he said, tone softening. He pulled back slightly and his eyes crinkled with glee, his smile full of razored teeth. 

A shiver went down Dexter’s back and he relished the sensation, always relished how Brian could make him not only think but _feel_. 

“We’ll have _so much fun.”_

 

 

It was by far their most daring undertaking yet. Dexter would never have dreamed of doing something like this- well, he would and he often had. But he never truly thought, the few years and the lifetime ago when it all began, that he would ever actually have the chance to do anything like this. 

He still remembered it perfectly, would always remember it perfectly, the memory of being barely thirteen and getting caught kneeling over a messily-butchered dog burned into his cerebrum for numerous reasons. The unbalancing blissful satiety of the kill, swiftly followed by the shockingly bright terror of being found out, and by his _Biney_ , of all people. The stupefied relief when Brian had just laughed at him, _“Jeeeezus, Dex, what if I had been Harry?_ ”. He had felt more emotions concentrated into those few moments than he had in any other of his life, before or since. For that reason alone the memory was exceptional. 

And everything that had followed after, the dark curl of Brian’s smile as he surveyed his little brother’s work on the unlucky stray, the conspiratory arm around around Dexter's shoulder as they walked away from the buried mess, murmuring secret thoughts about blood and death that perfectly mirrored those that plagued his mind, the whispered promises of more, of better things to come, of _togetherness_ ; it had all served to enshrine the memory further. The moment he found out he wasn't alone. That his best friend and closest companion was, miraculously, his companion in this as well. 

 

 

It was a bit of an adjustment, killing with another person. Initially he nearly ruined it with his own useless anxieties. Brian didn't care that he wasn't a good enough person, but what if he was an insufficient monster, too? What if he let him down? What if he was too weak, too stupid? He was self-conscious, and being self-conscious marred the bliss of killing, which if allowed to continue would be horrible above all else, and he almost panicked before they had even really begun.

But Brian never said a word about anything like that. They slaughtered their way through so many wayward animals, trading off who assisted and who made the kill, and Brian would have the same tight, feral look during all of them, his glittering eyes occasionally meeting Dexter’s with that dangerous smile that was just for the two of them. If Dexter faltered for a moment, lost in his own mind, Brian would just wait quietly, prompting with a soft “Dex” if needed. 

Brian was always fairly serious during the kill, which Dexter appreciated, his own grasp of humor was shaky and he wouldn't enjoy trying to decode social nuance just then. And the act of killing needed seriousness, it was all very serious to Dexter, and it would have been a shame if Brian felt differently. 

But he needn't have worried, the moment when one of them killed was always bright and taut and, well, special. He would draw the knife down in a firm arc across the throat of whatever their victim was and feel that wondrous release when the blood began welling out, thick and dire. And his eyes would go to his brother’s as the light in the creature’s eyes dimmed, and it was the purest sensation, whatever it was, that he had ever known. 

When Brian killed it was equally, though differently compelling, though Dexter knew his brother most loved the moments after. He would dreamily trace lines with his finger across the hide of the animal, dividing it into parts that suited some balance in his mind, and then begin to cut along those imagined lines with surgical, methodical precision. His face would be so intent, his movements so spare and sleek, Dexter could only watch with something approaching awe. He would almost think it was beautiful to see, though he wasn't sure he correctly understood what beauty was. 

There were a few moments where they messed up, where absurdity crept in, like the time they almost fell down a well chasing after a half-despatched collie. Or the time they thought Brian could hold a very large and lively buck still while Dexter went for the kill, and the thing had thrashed with panicked strength and very nearly gored Brian before they sprang back and let it go, and then Dexter couldn't help but join his brother in hysterical, adrenaline-doped laughter. 

But in general it was only after the deed was done that the mischievous, laughing version of his older brother would return, anchoring him with morbid jokes that would repulse anyone else, easing him back into the moving realm, preparing Dexter, in his own Brian way, for reentry into the world of people who were coarse and illogical and could never appreciate the swelling stillness of their sacraments in the woods. 

 

 

When he was younger, Dexter used to enjoy watching nature documentaries, the natural violence appealing for obvious reasons. And some time during that first year of killing together, it occurred to him that he and his brother were similar to two rogue male lions- instinctively wary about each other's initial presence, but quickly becoming far more dangerous together. He never told Brian that, though, certain that even if he didn't laugh, surely he'd think it was stupid. 

Dexter never wanted Brian to think he was stupid. Brian knew almost everything. Everything useful, at least. Brian had _instincts_ and _art_ where Dexter just had impulse and hunger. But together they were perfect. Together they were unstoppable. Together, they were going to trick, torture, and murder Dexter’s high school geography teacher.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> How we feeling? Good start? Terrible start? Let me know!


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OML guys, I am so happy to see your comments!! Thank you so much, whether you're here because you crave that sweet sweet rare-pair fraternal incest, or whether you're one of my loyal subscribers (holy fuck i have loyal subscribers, what is happening), either way I am thrilled beyond belief that people are responding and digging it. 
> 
> AAAAAAAAHHHHH!
> 
> So here's some more! 
> 
> (TW for mentions of pedophilia, predatory behaviour)

Dexter had no particular interest in high school. He hadn't minded elementary school- recess and art class had both held their appeal, and small children were all strange enough that a quiet bit of extra oddness went mostly overlooked. Middle school was a bipolar experience of first itching, nameless dissatisfaction, then later (post The Encounter Of The Two Lions) a quiet triumph, almost giddiness, that had utterly insulated him from his peers and their clumsy attempts at cruelty.

By the time he entered high school he would have said (if he were ever inclined to say something so abstract, which was unlikely) that he had transcended it all. He maintained good grades because it was easy enough and to do otherwise might garner attention. But his school, his peers, his general public education experience- none of it scratched its way beneath the surface of his notice.

Perhaps that was why it took him until nearly halfway through his 10th school year to notice that something was amiss with his geography teacher. 

 

 

Mr. Ducan (Mr. Duncan, he had been erroneously introduced as at the beginning of the year, and most students collectively remained churlishly deaf to any attempts on his part to correct that mistake) was a balding man of average build, perhaps forty or fifty. From what little Dexter had bothered to absorb from the classroom, the man was a dry but not unusually dull instructor, mildly incapable of enforcing discipline in the more unruly students like many of the weaker teachers. Sweaty, inclined to slurp from the straw of his ever-present carton of iced tea. Utterly standard high school teacher fare. 

It wasn't until Dexter saw something quite by accident that he realized the act for what it was. 

He had finished the quiz earlier than most, and his eyes roved disinterestedly around the classroom under the facsimile of looking quietly down at his desk. He almost didn't notice, felt the disturbance register a second after his eyes had passed over it. 

Mr. Ducan, who had been pacing the rows of desks as was his habit during testing, was _looking_ at Toby Whiler. The way he was looking at Toby was completely at odds with the expressions Dexter had come to expect from teachers, and at first it confused him. Then he recognized- the look was _hungry_ , like a _predator_. 

How unexpectedly interesting. 

 

 

At first Dexter didn't really get it. What did the man want with Toby Whiler? For he most certainly wanted something. The looks came rarely, but consistently, and Dexter knew those looks. Whiler was a poor student in both grades and finances, judging by his clothes. Absent often. Dexter supposed he might be the sort that could be passed off as a runaway case, if he were to disappear. He watched quietly, and waited.

But weeks passed and Toby remained not dead or missing. What he _did_ do was change his behaviour in general, but especially in regards to Mr. Ducan. He became more fidgety, more inclined to start and flush when called on. He started a habit of chewing his nails, and lost a small amount of weight. This all seemed to please Mr. Ducan. He called on Toby more often and increasingly found reasons to have him stay a few minutes after class. His smiles didn't widen, exactly, but they sort of deepened when he addressed the boy. 

Dexter was enthralled by the mystery of it all. 

It came together with a rare snap of intuition one day as he was leaving the classroom. Poor Toby had to stay behind again, and as students trickled out of the room Dexter watched from the corner of his eye as the boy shuffled up to Mr. Ducan’s desk, Mr. Ducan waiting with hands steepled. Dexter saw the familiar shine in his eyes above his tepid expression, saw the tension in Toby’s mouth and the skittering, nervous quality to his gaze, looking everywhere but at his teacher, body leaning slightly away, seeking to flee even as he dutifully approached. Dexter’s mind whirled. Toby _knew_ he was prey, and Mr. Ducan knew he knew, and his triumph was evident. That meant Toby had already been caught and slain, no matter that he remained alive.

And then suddenly Dexter understood what sort of predator Mr. Ducan was, what he hunted for. His nostrils twitched with mild distaste as he continued exiting the room and turned down the hall. 

Sex. This, like a disappointing amount of things in this world, Dexter had found, was about sex. Mr. Ducan was a sex predator. A pedophile, Dexter supposed. 

 

 

Still, his interest wasn't entirely quashed. He and Brian hunted animals and pets- there was an simile to be made with Mr. Ducan and his pursuit of children, as far as challenge went. They usually killed their prey quickly, but occasionally they let it die slowly, watched its life drip away in soft increments that were mesmerizing in their inevitability and in how desperately blind the prey remained to that inevitability. Dexter could appreciate that sort of kill, and that meant that he could see kinship in Mr. Ducan, vulgar as his methods were. 

He wondered if Mr. Ducan could see a kinship in him. 

The notion wouldn't leave him, and so Dexter found himself compelled to try something new in the face of this new possibility. He drew attention to himself. 

It was a controlled, if awkward affair. He let himself answer more questions in class, but fumbled in his answers. He let his grades slip. He was hoping to give the man an excuse to meet more privately, and it worked. In short order Mr. Ducan was asking _him_ to stay after class. (He noticed with disinterest that Toby looked mildly alarmed at this development, though he said and did nothing)

Dexter approached the seated man with adrenaline zinging lightly to his fingertips. Would the man see? Would he know? _Did_ he know already? What was the protocol for two unrelated predators meeting on neutral ground? Dexter wouldn't say anything to reveal himself, of course, he'd keep up his pretense of normalcy and wait to see the other man’s move. 

The other man's move involved a lingering smile that didn't fit his concerned words about Dexter's grades, a quick glance up and down Dexter's figure, as if mentally weighing its collective parts, and finally an offer to receive the instructor’s help via after school tutoring sessions, which he offered to students he felt needed “more individualized instruction”. It was, he assured Dexter earnestly, his eyes still moving assiduously, _hungrily_ , nothing to be embarrassed of, needing extra help. Then he was brazen enough, he _dared_ to give Dexter a touch to the upper arm, damp hand clinging briefly to the fabric of his shirt before sliding off. 

Dexter was, to say the least, very disappointed. He was offended, perhaps even appalled. He declined and thanked the man stiffly, and left before his unusually strong emotions could potentially be detectable. 

Mr. Ducan didn't see him. He looked at Dexter and thought he saw prey. He saw nothing. He _was_ nothing, compared to them, a scavenger of easy targets, prowling with his snout low to the ground. A sniveling, stupid hyena to their lions. 

He realized he truly had wanted the man to see. _Still_ wanted it, even more fervently now, tainted with a sort of wounded pride. He and Brian could surely kill this man; he was soft and used to weak prey. His brain threw images at him of the two of them standing, sleek and glorious and superior over the lesser, painted in the blood of his dying throes. His squinty brown eyes, wide with fear, then growing the same dull blank a doe’s did, before being expertly dismembered and concealed. Dexter would be very proud of their work. Brian would be proud, too. 

It was, perhaps, the thought of Brian which prompted Dexter's brain to throw up another plan. It was far more lurid, more drawn out and involved, and- and _earthy_ in a way that made Dexter squirm with something that wasn't quite embarrassment (he was getting better, Brian would be pleased). His idea shifted some of the focus from killing to playing beforehand. It would be slow, would involve... seduction. It was very red, very _psychological_ , very surprising of him, honestly. 

But maybe not so surprising. His brother had long encouraged him to embrace more colors in life instead of fleeing from them. In this way (and a few others) Dexter's idea was very much inspired by him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> <3 <3 <3 you guys are awesome. Let me know if anything seems amiss.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bigger chapter this time guys, to say "sorry" for the wait and more honestly, because it's all porn under a thin veil of character building and I can't write brief porn to save my life. 
> 
> On that note- Here Be Underage Smut. Dexter is 14 in it. I headcannon (because I'm too lazy to remember precisely) that Brian is 2-3 years older than Dexter. You kinda knew this was coming, but just a fair warning ^^
> 
> Also Caution: Sloppy Writing. Awkward Phrases. Here Be A Solid Chapter of Flashback

When Dexter was fourteen his prick started being a nuisance. What had up until that point been a mostly unremarkable organ was now making itself known, and when he continued ignored it it began making louder demands, changing its size and causing physical and mental discomfort with steadily increasing frequency. 

He wasn't an idiot. He knew he was supposed to touch it. That pressure to conform, to be _normal_ was alone enough to make him baulk at the prospect of doing so. Nevermind the unmooring, slightly nauseated feelings inspired whenever he hesitantly attempted to- an uneven lurching inside his gut and chest, frightening in how out-of-control it made him feel for all that it was, bodily-sensation-wise, little more than a tickle. A complete antithesis to the satisfaction killing inspired, and Dexter wanted none of it.

Getting up at 4am to wash and change his sheets was unpleasant, though it had been a blessedly rare occurrence, before. Now it happened constantly, and he was convinced the entire household must know all about his pitiful struggle with his rebellious body. Brian almost had to know exactly what was going on; they shared a bedroom, after all. Dexter was almost tempted to ask his advice, as he did with most every problem he didn't understand, but even he knew this was too shameful to discuss. He suffered in silence and wondered darkly if this particular abnormality in his personality, rather than more obvious ones, would be the thing that sent him into the loony bin. 

 

 

One night he woke with his traitorous body part once again clamouring for attention, and once again Dexter couldn't help but give it a few quiet fitful tugs as if that would help anything (So contemptible, so ordinary- no, _below_ ordinary, because after all an ordinary teenage boy wouldn't be in this predicament, would happily get it to shut up instead of going clammy with unease) before subsiding with a muffled sigh of immense frustration. 

But not muffled enough, apparently, because horror of horrors, there was an answering frustrated sigh from the other side of the room, and he heard his brother's sleep-muddled voice complain.

“Goddamnit, Dex, you're being ridiculous.”

It was far beyond Dexter's abilities to think of a proper response at that moment, if one even existed. He felt all the blood simultaneously flood and drain from his body (though of course the fucking thing that got him into this mess remained cheerily unaffected). All he managed was a choked “I… can't” that sounded strangled because to complete his utter mortification in that moment he realized he was close to bawling. 

Silence stretched for a few moments. Just as Dexter shifted in preparation to bold blindly from the room, perhaps to the woods, perhaps forever, oh God, he heard Brian sigh again. It was the classic “put-upon but patient” sigh he had learned to associate with Brian's imminent help and despite himself he immediately relaxed a little upon hearing it. 

And when Brian told him to come over to his bed, Dexter did so without thought. 

After cocooning them together on his twin mattress, his brother at first merely attempted to verbally guide him through the process of touching himself. And when that failed and Dexter's hand faltered, unable to push past the queasiness, his own hand took over. 

That was immediately much better. Then it was no longer Dexter's responsibility, it was out of his hands, so to speak, the burden of making it all work instead resting with his infinitely more capable brother. 

When Brian brought him to orgasm that night, his first ever conscious one, Dexter did end up crying immediately after. He felt… hollowed out, somehow, and the relief was overwhelming, the whole orgasm experience would have been terribly overwhelming if his brother hadn't been there to help him and he was so, so grateful. Brian shushed him and scrubbed the tears from his face and held him until they dried up and it felt frankly wonderful. Then he told Dexter to go back to his bed and fucking sleep. 

It didn't stop there, of course. Why on earth would Dexter want to stop? It took him all of two nights before he woke again with the same problem and waited with bated breath for Brian’s grumbly acknowledgement and permission, before scrabbling over to his big brother's bed.

 

 

Around time ten or so, Brian refused to take over. Instead he insisted on Dexter bringing himself to orgasm with his own hands. And Dexter really tried, of course he did. He had stolen glimpses of what it looked like and spent the rest of the time in a closed-eyed cyclone of what it felt like when Brian’s hands manipulated his cock. He should be able to recreate the sensations, if not perfectly, then still well enough to get the job done. 

Except he just couldn't. When he touched himself the pressure of choice, of determining what minute muscle should be adjusted in response to what fragmented signal from his chaotic nervous system, what should be focused on and what should be ignored all while keeping up the required rhythmic sensations, was too much. He became paralyzed and full of nauseous shame for reacting that way and inevitably fell to pieces. 

The whole endeavor was thusly a failure. He tried for a red-faced fifteen minutes before Brian took pity on him and took him in hand. Afterwards Dexter couldn't help but clutch at Brian and burrow his face into his t-shirt, ashamed at himself. 

Brian, however, seemed blessedly unperturbed by his little brother's continued weakness in this general area and even let him stay there for a bit, a hand absently tugging at locks of his shaggy brown hair. Once again, Dexter was struck with a sort of surprised gratefulness that his brother never called him out on the absurdity of his situation- a teenage psychopath, to use the shorthand he figured society would, finding pleasure in slaughter but afraid of his own dick. Brian hadn't said anything like that, not in their room at night nor (God forbid) during a killing nor any time in between. It hadn't tainted them. 

It was while they were laying together there that Dexter first noticed his brother's physical arousal pressing up against his leg. But when Brian did nothing Dexter did nothing and that, for the time, was that. 

 

 

It took until around month three of things continuing like this before Dexter noticed it again while he, himself, was also aroused (He hadn't really been looking, much. It hadn't really occurred to him to. Did that make him selfish? He shrugged internally). “It” being his brother’s erection, almost close enough to touch Dexter's hip as he stroked him. If he weren't clad in boxers, of course. Dexter was often underwear-less, was it right that Brian remained clothed? He had absolutely no idea. 

“Brian.”

The hand slowed, but didn't still. Dexter squirmed around it and the words he was working out. “It- do y- do I… touch?” Why was his brain so useless?

Brian eyed him inscrutably. “Do you want to?”

Why would he ask that? What kind of useless complicated question was that? Dexter didn't have an answer to that and shrugged helplessly instead. Brian removed his hands from Dexter's cock, rolled his eyes with a snort and shrugged back at him with upturned palms, as if to say “Well what am I supposed to do, then?”. But he lay down on his back and spread his legs a little bit and the look on his face when he met Dexter's eyes was pure big brother daring.

Dexter realized at that moment that he had no plan in place for what he should do if said moment were to occur. In his panic he chose, of all ludicrous things, to attempt to give his brother a handjob. 

Because, of course, Dexter had so far demonstrated just fantastic ability in that activity. In less than three minutes Brian was both laughing and wincing, fingers wrapping around his wrist to tug him firmly away. 

“Interesting attempt,” he said dryly, with a hint of hoarseness to his voice, while Dexter stared at the bedsheets and quietly burned up with shame. After a few moments pause he tugged at Dexter's hip to encourage him onto his side. Dexter complied with confusion that turned to alarm as he heard Brian spit into his hand behind him. 

“C’mon, I think you'll do better with this.”

Dexter was too frozen with surprise to protest or even really think as Brian prompted him with nudges to lift his leg. But when his brother's wet hand rubbed between his legs, just below his balls and decidedly _not_ near his asshole, the sigh Dexter let out was definitely tinged with relief. He heard his brother chuckle from behind him, though Brian said nothing further.

He shivered as he felt his brother's cock press against his bare flesh, a wet slide combining with a sort of nudge until it was situated snugly between his thighs and against his balls. Brian's warmth and skin was just behind him, and it was good. When Dexter's hips jerked involuntarily from the wash of new sensations Brian tugged him slightly closer, his body leaning over Dexter's and weighing it down, and that was even better. 

After situating them in that brief lull Brian began moving while Dexter, at first, more or less just lay there and let his brother take control of his body. The thought was an attractive one, more than enough to make the activity worth doing, enough in fact to have Dexter realizing, several minutes in, that he was actually rocking his hips back and forth in perfect unconscious time with his brother's motions. That, and that his dick was very hard and he wanted to come quite badly. 

The friction and pressure against his balls might be arousing, but there wasn't much sensation directly to his penis, and Dexter was fairly certain he needed that to come. He considered taking himself in hand and immediately discarded the idea; no sense in looking for trouble. He didn't truly _need_ to reach orgasm. In fact, there was a perverse satisfaction in ignoring his own body's needs, at the moment. And besides, he found he really liked this particular activity and didn't want to change anything, wouldn't dream of disrupting the momentum he could sense gathering in his brother's motions, a hypnotic increase of force and speed. 

Brian's movements stuttered just after Dexter had the conscious thought to be nervous about their loudness, and he was confused until he felt the additional wetness trickling against his groin and thighs. The realization of what it was sent a rush of peculiar calmness, a golden sort of satisfaction through him. He had done it, done well, and the lingering sensation of his brother’s warm, loose body and breath panting close against his neck further cemented that assessment. 

When Brian took Dexter's cock in a lazy grip in the next few moments and got him off, the satisfaction of his orgasm was bright, but still paled next to that glow of accomplishment he had experienced. 

Pleasing Brian, Dexter had discovered, gave the whole messy, unwieldy concept of sex a purpose, and _infinitely_ more appeal.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for sticking around <3


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